Expectations dashed. Expectations revived: 24 hours in New York City

“It’s not how I expected it to look.”

Uh-oh, I think. We’re in a yellow cab and we’ve barely entered the city proper. I feel someone has watched far too many rom-coms filmed in Manhattan penthouses and hotel lobbies, and not enough gritty dramas set on New York’s streets and fire escapes.

It’s my mother’s first time in the city that never sleeps. It’s also the third time we’ve tried to travel here together—a painful fall and COVID-19 scuppered the previous two attempts. I have readied myself for motherly expectations—after all, I have 40-plus years of experience. But as a third-time visitor to New York City with a deep regret that I never lived here even for a short stint, I also know this city will get under her skin. In a good way. Eventually, anyway.

We check in to the Moxy Chelsea. My mum may be a 70-something going on 40-something, but I wonder if the hotel is too trendy with its darkened lobby pumping out music, space-saving rooms (“Where’s the wardrobe?” she asks, before we hook our clothes onto the ‘wall rail”), and a clientele that appears very ‘digital nomad’. But she’s unfazed by any of that and loves it; the rooftop bar is a big hit, it turns out. It also helps that the twin beds turn out to be the best hotel beds either of us has slept in and that the shower, while giving out utilitarian shower-block vibes, is hydrotherapy heaven. The biggest boxes have been ticked.

I remind myself that if her family had a coat of arms, it would feature a sponge, mop, and vacuum cleaner. The truth is, she’s right. It is quite filthy and I’m suddenly aware of how clean the London Underground is.

There’s no breakfast but the ground-floor Café d’Avignon is both artisanal and a pop-up. Could this be any more New York? The ‘Friends’ reference stays in my head, and we enjoy the complimentary drip coffee with a pricey (after all, this is the week with the worst US dollar-UK pound rate I’ve known) but deliciously flaky pain au chocolate. Perched at the cool bar with our caffeine fix, we feel we’re breakfasting just like New Yorkers. Well, New Yorkers in those movies at least.

Everyone knows walking is the best way to get about New York, but while my mum appears to have the energy of a border collie, I am aware she can’t pound the streets the way she might have done even 10 years ago. If I’m honest, I probably can’t pound the streets the way I’d have done a decade ago either.

In any case, the city’s buses and Metros are as much part of the New York experience as hitting the streets, and I remind myself that we don’t have to walk everywhere. “It’s so dirty down here,” comments my mum as she gazes around the subway platform like some sort of transport health inspector. I remind myself that if her family had a coat of arms, it would feature a sponge, mop, and vacuum cleaner. The truth is, she’s right. It is quite filthy and I’m suddenly aware of how clean the London Underground is.

We get off at Greenwich Village so we can amble our way toward the start of the High Line, an aerial walkway that runs along New York’s West Side. “This area is nice,” she comments. Ah-ha, I get it. This is the New York my mother is after: Brownstone houses, bistro restaurants, little shops, and weekend farmers’ markets in little squares. It’s also coming up to Halloween and bright orange pumpkins decorate apartment block steps, making the streets look even prettier. We buy what is probably overpriced but delicious peach chutney and sourdough bread at the market. What’s another dollar when the rate is like-for-like?

The High Line is a hit. It’s an easy walk, which we do south to north from the Meatpacking District up to Hudson Yards. With fantastic New York street views to the east and the Hudson River to the west, we enjoy what is probably the last warm day of the year, in our sleeveless jumpsuits. Public art along the walkway includes a Statue of Liberty sculpture with a cartoonish mask wearing a hijab, a statement on human rights, asylum and citizenship; a reminder of why I love this city with its outward-looking spirit and embracing of freedom of expression.

Our arrival at Chelsea Market is neatly timed for lunch. We stumble upon a gorgeous-looking Italian restaurant called La Devozione which describes itself as an “ode to pasta”, its dough prepared by three generations of pasta makers. We haven’t been here 24 hours yet but already $30 for a simple penne arrabbiata seems reasonable. We are acclimatizing well, we tell each other, and tuck into the ode. It turns out pasta is poetry, after all.

“I wouldn’t come back again,” my mum tells her sister on the phone that night as we sit on our beds, double-screening with Netflix and WhatsApp.

We finish the walk near Hudson Yards before taking the metro to our final sight of the day: The Empire State Building. Even I hadn’t managed to get here on two previous visits. Despite pre-booking, the queue is terribly managed but vacations bring out the live-and-let-live side. We make it to the terrace just in time for sunset. It is nothing short of glorious, watching the sky turn orange over New York’s famous landmarks. When you tire of sunsets, you tire of life.

“I wouldn’t come back again,”  my mum tells her sister on the phone that night as we sit on our beds, double-screening with Netflix and WhatsApp. “I’m glad I’m seeing everything though. Tomorrow, we’re going to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and Chinatown and Little Italy. Then Central Park and a diner breakfast on Sunday, the discount outlet on Monday, and the 9-11 Memorial on Tuesday.” I am smiling to myself in the next bed. Her honesty never wavers. She really does tell it like it is.

It’s 7.30pm but we’re not hugely hungry and don’t fancy going out for dinner. I suggest takeaway pizza and a movie night in the room. Dressed in my ‘sweatpants’ and ‘sneakers’—I’m in New York and no longer wear ‘tracksuit bottoms’ and ‘trainers’—I nip out of the hotel, stop at the kiosk for a couple of cans of “soda” (we don’t call them that either), cross the road, and buy two enormous slices of pizza to take back. And there, just for a moment, I feel like I do live here. It’s our very own New York minute.

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The writer was part-hosted at the Moxy Chelsea in Midtown New York, and was a guest of CityPASS and nycgo.com.

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